The Griffins' Dirge
by pohatufan1
Summary: The grim murders of the Griffin orphans, and the consequent stealing of their family fortune, causes the Very Fine Dramatists to wax introspective. Rated R for violence, rough language, and general overall feelings of doom.


The rusty door banged open, and six people trooped in.

One was tall and slender, like a scarecrow. He had pure white hair like a Persian cat, and one long eyebrow, like the volunteer he had battled several times. There was a gleam of evil in his eye like that of no other creature in existence. And on his ankle was a tattoo of an eye.

Drunk, he staggered across the opposite side of the room, where he swung the suitcase he had been carrying down onto the table. Then he unlatched it and pried it open.

It was filled with thousand-dollar bills.

"Thank God," he whispered in a coarse voice. "The Griffin forshoon ish ours at lasht."

With some difficulty, he turned around and faced the five people standing across the room. "C'mon, ladies 'n' gennelmen! C'mon an' take a gander! It'sh all ours now, oh yesh!"

None of the five people who stepped forward were drunk. Nonetheless, they all had an unsavory appearance. The first one wore a fedora and a trenchcoat, and a stern expression. More striking than these, however, was the fact that he had hooks for hands. There was also a tall, skinny man in long black robes, whose head was completely bald, and whose nose was particularly long and crooked. Next were two women in almost Victorian-looking dresses, who wore white powder all over their faces. Finally was a person of large and amorphous form, who looked like neither a man nor a woman.

They crowded around the suitcase, awed. It was more money than they had seen in their lifetimes. Just as the bald man with the long nose reached out to touch one of the bills, the man with one eyebrow withdrew the suitcase and slammed it shut.

"Oopsh," he muttered. "Forgot. It'sh all _mine_."

"Boss," began the bald man with the long nose, hesitantly, "couldn't you share some of it with us?"

His boss stared at him.

"Well, we did help you out an awful lot this time," the bald man with the long nose continued, the volume of his voice constantly decreasing.

"He has a point," one of the powder-faced women added. "I mean, without us, you might have been left dangling from that branch on the side of the Precipice Precipitous."

The man with one eyebrow's face darkened, and in a motion almost too swift to see, he slapped the powder-faced woman across the cheek.

"There, that'sh your share of the forshun," he said, and laughed hiccupingly. Then he tottered out of the room muttering about having to wash his hands and how much he hated that. He took the suitcase with him.

The five people left in the room reacted to their boss' cruel action in different ways. The powder-faced woman whom he had slapped knelt down on the floor and softly rubbed her cheek, her eyes blank and deadpan. The other powder-faced woman knelt down beside her and cooed softly in her ear, trying to soothe her. The hook-handed man sat down on the couch and buried his face in his hooks. The bald man with the long nose leaned against the table and tried to look as impassive as possible. The person who looked like neither a man nor a woman lit and began to smoke a cigarette, which the others had noticed he or she did not do out of dependence, but only when he or she was feeling particularly distressed: it was a nervous habit, of sorts.

There was silence for a long, long time. Then the hook-handed man spoke.

"We killed them."

The others did not reply, and he continued. "We _killed _those Griffin orphans. We—" but he made a small choking noise and lapsed into silence.

"It was mostly Olaf," said the second powder-faced woman, the one who hadn't been slapped.

"I know, I know. It's always mostly Olaf. He's the one who dreams up these schemes. He's the one that sets fire to all these homes. I know it's mostly Olaf. But we helped him." The hook-handed man looked around gauntly at his companions. "Oh yes. We helped him. One man alone can't slaughter four children."

The others said nothing for a while, but then the bald man with the long nose spoke up. "I guess we did it for the money."

"Do you really think so, Flacutono?" the hook-handed man asked. "Do you really think we did it for the money? I don't know about any of you, but I wasn't surprised at all when he shared none of it with us. Sharing isn't one of the boss' virtues."

The person who looked like neither a man nor a woman puffed his or her cigarette, and nodded.

"The mind does stupid things when confronted with that much wealth," Flacutono murmured. "In the face of the Griffin fortune, I was willing to forget all the times he'd denied us our fair share in the past."

"So was I," added the second powder-faced woman.

"Well, that shows what idiots you both are," the hook-handed man said angrily.

"Shut up, Lucafont!" the second powder-faced woman shrieked. "Just shut up! I don't want to think about it any more."

"Damn it, Flo, you _have_ to think about these things!" Lucafont yelled. "Are we going to go around committing arson and stealing fortunes and killing children and just try not to _think_ about it?"

"You son of a bitch," Flacutono whispered, and his fists tightened. "If you don't shut the hell up right _now,_ I swear to God I'll—"

But the person who looked like neither a man nor a woman siezed Flacutono's arm with considerable strength, just before he could lunge forward and attack Lucafont. The bald man tried to twist out of the person's grasp, but he couldn't, and he began to calm down.

There was silence, for a few moments.

The first powder-faced woman ran her fingers through her hair, an idiosyncrasy indicating her anguish. "I shouldn't have joined this troupe," she moaned. "I shouldn't have joined this troupe, I shouldn't have joined this troupe, I shouldn't have—"

"Tocuna's right," Flo said. "None of us should have joined. The boss promised excite-ment, intrigue, adventure, and the chance to put on wonderful plays. All I've experienced so far is horror, apathy, danger, and some of the worst plays I've ever had the misfortune to perform."

"Yeah," said Lucafont. "I can say the same." The other two nodded as well.

"But…" Flacutono started. "But it's not as though we had any choice, did we?"

"Sure we had a choice," Lucafont grumbled. "A Hobsen's choice."

The person who looked like neither a man nor a woman puffed his or her cigarette, and gave him a questioning stare.

"I mean the boss gave each of us an offer we had no option but to accept, even if it was against our wishes."

And as they reflected upon Lucafont's words, each member of Count Olaf's theatre troupe lapsed into silence as they thought about the Hobsen's choice that had been presented to each and every one of them in turn.

-----

"You're Futon, right?"

The tall man stood looking down at the enormous figure sitting destitutely in the gutter. "Cal O. Futon, is that it?"

The fat person nodded.

"So what's Cal stand for? Calvin or Calliope?"

The tall man did not receive a reply to that remark. He shrugged and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, and when the tiny fire jumped into existence, he noticed that his companion had drawn back a little, alarmed.

"What's the matter? Don't like fire? Here, have a cig, it'll do you good." He tossed Cal a cigarette, but he or she didn't ask for a light. _Definitely doesn't like fire… well, too bad._

"I should introduce myself," the tall man said presently. "My name is Count Olaf, and I happen to be the greatest acting genius of all time."

He observed that Cal perked up a little at the sound of the word "acting". "You like acting, Cal?"

The fat person nodded.

"Ever been in a show?"

Cal shook his or her head.

"But I bet you always wanted to be an actor… or actress, didn't you?"

Cal nodded.

"Well, then I—look at that!" Olaf said, and he pointed to the hills several miles to the south of them. "Looks like something's burning."

_And it looks like old wart-face has carried out his part of the plan._ For, at that same point several miles away, an important-looking man with warts all over his face was stalking away from the blazing house that belonged to Cal O. Futon.

"Come on," said Olaf, and with a great deal of trouble he lifted Cal to his or her feet. "I've got a car parked nearby. Let's check it out."

They hurried to the black limousine, where Count Olaf jumped into the driver's seat and strapped himself in. After a few minutes of difficulty, Cal managed to squeeze him or herself into the back.

They drove in silence until arriving at the location of the pillar of smoke. Cal uttered the tiniest of gasps.

There, standing before them, lay the smoking, charred ruins of what had only a few hours earlier been his or her house.

"Oh dear," Olaf said. "That's pretty horrible."

But Cal didn't reply. Instead he or she merely pressed his or her hands against the glass, making almost-inaudible moaning noises.

"You going to—" Before Olaf could finish his sentence, he saw Cal unbuckling his or her seatbelt and starting to open the door. "Hey!"

Cal looked back at him.

"Look. Life's tough and all that shit, you know? Sometimes you have to move on. Now me, I can offer you a whole new life. You'll never have to concern yourself with all those things you lost. What do you say? Join my theatre troupe?"

Cal shook his or her head slowly, blank eyes faintly watering, and continued to open the door.

"Stop it!" Olaf shouted. "It'll do no good! There's nothing left for you out there!"

At that, Cal stopped. Olaf's words had hit home. Cal _didn't_ have anything left. He or she glanced at the remains of his or her home once more… and then slammed the car door shut.

"That's better," Olaf said. "Going to come with me and the troupe?"

Cal nodded.

"Say, how come you never speak, anyway?"

"Eu vorbesc nu limba engleza."

Olaf was stunned. _"What?"_

"Eu vorbesc nu limba engleza. Engleza."

Olaf could guess at the meaning of that word. "What, you don't speak English?"

"Da."

"Jesus _Christ_," Olaf griped. "Well, you'll just have to shut up until you can speak English proper, then. I don't have time to learn Italian."

"Limba _romana_," Cal corrected, but those were the last two words he or she ever spoke.

-----

_What have I done? What have I done?_

Flacutono ran down the alley, feeling like a fox being hunted by dogs. The cops were on the prowl. Three cars full of them. And they were all after him.

A metal fence. No problem. He could climb over that. He scaled the side and hurtled himself over the top, landing with a dull thud on the pavement below.

Shit.

It hurt like hell.

Flacutono looked down. His left leg was broken at the knee. _Shit._

It didn't matter. He had to escape. He had to find shelter. He'd been in the clutches of the police once and that had been enough.

He picked himself up and limped towards the end of the alley, a blood-spattered path trailing behind him, trying not to think about the extreme pain in his leg.

He was out of the alley. He was out in the open. And—

—and one of the police cars had found him.

"No!" Flacutono yelled.

As if in response, a black limousine pulled up beside him. The window rolled down, revealing a man with one long eyebrow and sunglasses at the wheel. "Need a lift, friend?"

There was a God.

Flacutono yanked open one of the doors and stumbled in. Almost before he could close the door behind him, the limousine took off, with the police car in hot pursuit.

"He's on your tail, isn't he?" the driver asked. "You must be Flacutono."

Flacutono was astounded. "How'd you know that?"

There was a very loud screeching sound as the limousine executed a sudden right turn and raced down another street, the police car still hot on their heels.

"I read the paper," the driver said. "My name is Count Olaf, the most incredibly handsome man in the history of the universe."

Flacutono didn't quite know how to respond to this, so he changed the subject. "Can you do something about my leg?"

"All in good time," Olaf smiled, and the limousine sped over a pothole, causing Flacutono's leg to jerk and doubling the pain he was feeling at that moment. He began tearing strips off his sleeves and wrapping up the wound. Of course, it needed more treatment than that, but it was the best he could do at the moment.

"You committed arson, eh? That why the police are after you?"

"Yes."

"What'd you burn down?"

The bald man paused, but then he decided to go ahead and speak. Olaf was, after all, his benefactor. "The house of the woman I loved."

It was clear Olaf got amusement out of that, but he attempted to conceal it behind a layer of shock. "Now, why on earth would you do such a horrible thing?"

"She didn't love me back."

Olaf went around another sharp corner. The police car was looking farther and farther away. "We'll shake them loose soon enough."

Flacutono's voice began to go hoarse. "And when she turned me down, I just… I was so sad that I…"

"Oh, you're still talking about that?" Olaf asked. "Look. As soon as we get your leg fixed up, I've got an offer for you. You sound like just the kind of man I need for my theatre troupe."

"Theatre troupe?"

"Yes: the Very Fine Dramatists. We tour around, perform plays, do the occasional wicked deed."

"But the police are already chasing me," Flacutono said. At the same time, however, his argument was undermined by the fact that the police car could no longer be seen.

"Please," Olaf replied exasperatedly. "We wear costumes. We use props. We create fake ID cards. No one will ever know you're the same man who burned down the house of his would-be girlfriend."

"But…"

"No buts, Flacutono. Come on. If you said no, I'd feel so unhappy that I just might kick you out of the car, and leave you for the police to find you… broken leg and all."

When he put it that way the offer sounded awfully enticing.

"All right, I'll do it," Flacutono decided. "Now can we do something about this leg?"

"But of course!" Olaf said. "Just as soon as we reach my humble home. Oh, and…" –here he looked at Flacutono's scalp, upon the back of which was a spiral tattoo– "…it looks like you'll need some disguising. There's a wig in the trunk. Once we get there, why don't you try it on?"

-----

She couldn't believe what had happened.

_Flo, you are the eldest of our daughters. Bianca and Tocuna look up to you; you are their guide. You must promise us that whatever happens, you will take care of them. Let no harm come to them._

These words, these memories of her parents, raced through her head as she stumbled through the dark forest. Thorns tore at her legs and carved tiny slashes in her dress. The smoke was unbearable. It was difficult both to see and to breathe.

"Mom! Dad!" she shouted in a half-sob, both from her grief and from the stinging sensation of the smoke.

"Bianca! Tocuna!"

As she uttered this last word, her feet met something large on the ground, and she tumbled to the earth. Coughing and wiping soot off her face, she pulled herself to her feet. She began to run further, but thought better of it when she perceived a muted sound behind her.

The thing she had tripped over was weeping.

"Flo?" asked a soft voice.

Flo rushed to the figure and bent down. It was her youngest sister. "Tocuna!"

"Is that you, Flo?" Tocuna whispered. "Thank God you're here. I'm so scared… it feels like the whole world is burning up."

"Not the whole world," Flo amended. "Just—"

"Don't say it," Tocuna whimpered. "Please don't say it."

Flo began to sweep the bits of bark and ash from Tocuna's hair, although her own hair was equally disheveled. "Do you know if Mom or Dad, or Bianca, got out?"

"I don't know," Tocuna sobbed. "Oh God, I don't know, I don't know…"

"Shut up!" her sister hissed.

Tocuna looked stunned, and Flo sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get angry. But we need to keep our wits about us."

"You're right."

"We should go back to the house."

Tocuna's eyes widened. "I'm not going back there!"

"But we have to! We have to find the others!" Flo began to pull Tocuna to her feet, but the younger woman sat stoically.

"I refuse to move from this spot."

"We are going— to find— the others!" Flo barked.

But a third voice, easily the most sinister, cut her off. "I don't believe you're going to do either."

Standing before them was a tall, bony man with one eyebrow and two eyes that shone as though he had just told a joke and was anticipating peals of laughter in response.

"What do you mean?" Flo asked.

"Who are you?" Tocuna asked at the same time.

"My name is Count Olaf: actor, genius, and just generally incredible person _par excellence_," the man said, "and when I say you're not going to do either, I mean that you will neither remain here nor seek out the rest of your family."

Both ladies rose to their feet. "You're insane," Flo protested. "They could be dead right now!"

"Oh, you're worried about that, are you? Well, let me clarify: they _are_ dead. Your sullen father, your screechy mother, and that pallid sister of yours." His grin widened, as though the joke he had just told with his eyes was an absolute masterpiece of wit and witticism.

Flo and Tocuna gasped, but it was Flo who gathered herself first. "I don't believe you for one instant, you madman."

"No? Perhaps, then, I should present some evidence?" With one lean, hairy hand, he displayed to them a tiny silver dove on a looped cord.

"_That's Bianca's locket!"_ Tocuna shrieked. _"Give it to me!"_

But Olaf's fingers closed around the locket. "Should I?" he asked the ladies. "Why, you ought to know by now that nothing in this world is free. If I were to give you the locket, I'm afraid it would come at a price."

Tocuna shrank back, and Olaf laughed. It was a harsh, grating sound. "Not that kind of price. Even if you _are_ pretty," he added, looking her up and down. "No, my price is that both of you join my theatre troupe. There'll be plenty of thrills, and you will have the chance to perform alongside me, which is of course the greatest conceivable honor in the world. What do you say?"

Flo assessed the situation. As much as she missed Bianca, she wasn't willing to make any promises based on the offer of her younger sister's locket. But she still felt compelled to join up with Olaf. What else did they have to live for? They had no house, they had no parents. Where would they go?

She thought about it for a moment more, then spoke. "All right. I'm in."

"Me too," said Tocuna.

"Fine." Olaf casually tossed the locket into her hands, then turned. "Come on. We're leaving."

-----

ANWHISTLE AQUATICS

MARINE RESEARCH and RHETORICAL ADVICE

That fool Widdershins had kept one too many secrets from him. Orestes Lucafont was prepared for revenge.

He glanced down at the torch in his hand.

He was about to set the Anwhistle Aquatics sign ablaze, just to start things off, when a voice from out of the darkness stopped him.

"Good to see you, Fernald."

Lucafont froze. "My name's not Fernald."

"Sure it isn't." Gregor Anwhistle stepped forward, the shadows losing their grasp on his form. "I know all about the little name you've concocted for yourself. Orestes Lucafont, is that right?"

"I didn't concoct it, you fool," Lucafont replied smoothly. "Orestes Lucafont is my real name. Fernald Widdershins is a lie."

"Who's the fool, _Fernald?"_ Anwhistle spat, sarcastically emphasizing the last word. "You have no idea what you're doing. Captain Widdershins was smart enough to keep the really horrible secrets from you, but it looks like you weren't smart enough to accept that."

"I was never the passive type," Lucafont said softly.

"That's obvious," Anwhistle sneered. "And such a pity it is for you. You've gotten in over your head now, Fernald. Funny…" He smiled unpleasantly. "I always thought you might turn out to be as noble as your mother."

"_Noble?"_ Lucafont laughed. "What do you know about nobility, Anwhistle? Your activities here in the Gorgonian Grotto could lead to more death than you can possibly control. What if your brother died because of Volatile Fungus Deportation? Would you feel noble then?"

Anwhistle's eyes widened for a moment, but then he slowly shook his head. "It's all for the greater good, bastard," he replied. And he lunged at Lucafont.

But before he could strike him, Lucafont tossed the torch over Anwhistle and into Anwhistle Aquatics, where it landed and spread its white-hot flame. Soon the entire research center, from the farthest wall to the very borders of the sandy shore where they stood, was ablaze.

Anwhistle gaped at this act of villainy and turned to Lucafont. "You monster – you've destroyed one of the most crucial V.F.D. sites!"

"Screw V.F.D. and screw yourself. I'm not going to—"

But Lucafont never got a chance to complete his sentence, for Anwhistle furiously punched him in the face. Lucafont staggered back, blood trickling down from his nose, and grinned. "If it's a fight you want…"

"It's a _death _I want, traitor," Anwhistle growled, and he threw himself at Lucafont again.

But this time, Lucafont was ready. He grabbed Anwhistle by the arm and thrust him backwards, where he collided with the wall. His head was bruised, but Anwhistle had only been made more volatile and dangerous as a result.

He swung his fist at Lucafont, who ducked and siezed Anwhistle's leg. With considerable strength, Lucafont now severely twisted the ankle of Anwhistle, who screamed in pain and collapsed.

Now Lucafont was pinning him down. His left hand was gripping Anwhistle's right arm, and his right hand was clenched around the volunteer's throat.

Anwhistle's eyes widened. "Ahh… Agghhh…"

"Who's got the upper hand now, Anwhistle?" Lucafont said coolly.

But at that moment, the flames reached a cupboard attached to the ceiling and fastened against the west wall. The cupboard came loose and plummeted to the inferno below, scattering its contents across the ground. There was a butter dish, and a box of toothpicks. There was a bottle of vinegar, and a few cans of soup. And there was a steak knife, which was thrown from the cupboard to a place on the sand not far from the left hand of Gregor Anwhistle.

Menace glimmered in his eyes as, grinning, he reached for the steak knife.

"No!" Lucafont yelled, and he let go of Anwhistle's throat in order to pin down his left arm. But it was too late. Anwhistle grabbed the steak knife by its wooden handle and brought it down swiftly on Lucafont's left wrist.

Lucafont screamed in pain and agony. His left hand had, only moments before, been keeping Anwhistle's right arm down. Now his left hand was no longer connected to the rest of his body. At the end of his arm, there was only a bloody stump.

And as he was on his hand and knees, weeping, Anwhistle got up and began to back off. "You ready to give up, Fernald?"

At that, Lucafont got up. His face was wraithlike, contorted by rage and grief. He threw himself at Anwhistle with the intention of ripping the volunteer's head off, with his own bare hand if he couldn't get the knife away. But Anwhistle grabbed Lucafont's right arm, held it aloft, and cleaved away his other hand.

There can be no words to describe Lucafont at that moment. His shock, his fury, his anguish, and above all his pain, were all so great that they transcended the limits of the English language.

And he wasn't even defeated yet.

He planted a firm kick square in the chest of Gregor Anwhistle, who fell back onto the fire behind them. That shouldn't have been enough to kill Lucafont's enemy, but as he collapsed, his head fell directly upon a very large glass jar of peanut butter. He was knocked out cold, and remained unconscious as the flames slowly blanketed his body and reduced him to dust and ash.

It was a pitifully easy way for him to go, all things considered.

Yet Lucafont had no interest in that. He was bleeding openly from two severe wounds. His first instinct was to scream in pain, but he had already done that. His second instinct was to dunk the wounds in the water outside the Gorgonian Grotto, in the hope that it might do some good.

But before he could rush to the edge of the shore, he was stopped by a horrifying sight.

The Medusoid Mycelia, the volatile fungi that Gregor Anwhistle had been deporting, had entered the waxing phase of their cycle. And now they were sprouting up from the ground in droves, silently and sinisterly, turning the beige sand dark gray.

Lucafont knew full well how deadly the Medusoid Mycelium was. _Fuck._ Now he had three ways to die. He could go back and die by fire, he could go forward and die by spore poisoning, or he could stay right where he was and die by blood loss.

He never thought he would hate Gregor Anwhistle more after he was dead than when he was alive, but that's what happened.

He began to wheeze.

Just then, however, a scratchy voice called out "Lucafont!" from far behind him, beyond the flames.

Not knowing who it was or how they knew he was there, Lucafont was uncertain of what to do, but he decided he had no choice. "I'm here!" he cried.

Then he saw that someone was spraying the fire with a giant hosepipe. An hour ago that would have been an unappealing vision – after all, an hour ago his only objective was to see Anwhistle Aquatics go up in flames. But now it was the most welcome sight in the world.

The person holding the very large hosepipe, which Lucafont could see trailed back and upwards through some kind of passageway (which, he supposed, must lead to the surface) was particularly tall and scrawny-looking. His nose was rather crooked, and he had one long eyebrow instead of two regular-length ones. He wore no socks, and Lucafont could see a tattoo of an eye on his ankle.

It was a familiar icon.

This man was a volunteer.

Lucafont almost considered running to the water and taking his chances with the Medusoid Mycelia, but they hadn't even reached the waning phase yet, and his cough had become quite harsh.

Eventually the volunteer had completely doused the flames, and there was nothing left but smoke, which rose lazily and seeped up through the passageway to (Lucafont guessed) the land above. The volunteer looked down at Anwhistle's barely-recognizable corpse and gave it a satisfied kick.

"You're a volunteer," Lucafont coughed, even though this last action wasn't exactly what he thought a volunteer would have done. "Are you going to…"

"Relax," the volunteer said. "I defected. I'm not working with V.F.D. anymore. And you don't have to either."

"My… hands…" Lucafont gasped. "And my throat…"

"I pinched a supply of horseradish from a V.F.D. factory," the man said easily, in such a way as to suggest that he was the most brilliant intellect ever to grace the Earth with his presence and he was just trying to be modest about it. "Horseradish dilutes the spores of the Medusoid and cures anyone who's been infected with them. Once we get out of here, we'll each devour a little, and you'll be as good as new."

"But… my hands," Lucafont rasped.

"Ah," said the man. "Now _that's_ a little more problematic. But no matter. We'll treat the wounds, and then I'll give you some new appendages. I guarantee you you'll like them a lot more than boring old hands."

"Really?" Lucafont wheezed. The man seemed too nice, somehow. "What's in it for you?"

"Oh, nothing much. You just have to come with me and join my theatre troupe. We're called the Very Fine Dramatists, and we perform plays and do horrible but necessary deeds, such as murder and arson. You've proved yourself capable of both murder and arson, so I think you'd be perfect for the role."

"Will V.F.D. be involved?"

"Oh yes." The man smiled nastily. "In fact, V.F.D. members are the people we're murdering, and their safe places are the buildings we're burning down. Unless, of course, we need to burn a few ordinary mansions and kill a few innocent orphans in order to obtain their fortunes."

Lucafont pondered. On the one hand (and he almost laughed at _that_ unfortunate choice of words), he wasn't so sure about stealing anyone's fortunes. On the other hand, he was quite eager to cause as much damage to V.F.D. as possible. And besides, it wasn't as though he had a choice. The man was offering him a cure for the cough and healing for the wounds, and either the cough or the wounds would kill him if the man left. There was only one thing to say.

"All right," Lucafont decided. "I'll join the Very Fine Dramatists. But what's your name?"

"Me?" the man chuckled. "Why, I'm Count Olaf."

-----

These memories flashed through each of their minds, reminding them all of why they had joined the troupe – and that, for all their different reasons, they'd had no choice but to do so.

But it didn't make any of them feel any better.

Flo helped Tocuna to her feet, and they sat on the couch. Next to them, Lucafont was staring at his hooks with eyes that seemed on the verge of tears.

Awkwardly but kindly, Tocuna's fingers found his right hook. "It's all right," she spoke softly, and as was her idiosyncrasy when it was not all right, she repeated herself. "It's all right."

Flacutono sat on the armrest of the couch and leaned back against the wall, looking up at the ceiling and closing his eyes. He didn't want to remember any more. The first tear rolled down Lucafont's cheek. Flo opened a case of makeup and gently began to re-powder Tocuna's cheek. She tried to draw a little heart to match that on Flo's other cheek but found that she could not. Cal lit another cigarette. It was all right. It was all right.


End file.
